


If I Kissed You Would You Think I Was Lonely

by speakpirate



Category: Pretty Little Liars, The Perfectionists (TV 2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-23 18:56:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18155750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: She goes by Alison Laurens these days. She’s tried to google-proof her life, to make a fresh start that doesn’t involve old stories about kidnappings and stalkers and dead bodies in the yard.Until new mystery threatens to burn it all down, and an unlikely ally becomes the only one she can trust.The version of Ali/Mona Perfectionists that I'd like to see.





	1. Prelude in B Minor

**Author's Note:**

> _Like lco123, I'm eager to get my version of how Alison winds up in the Pacific Northwest sans Emily out into the world before The Perfectionists debuts. I have no idea what The Perfectionists show is actually going to be like, so while this fic does pull some details from the book series and/or teasers for the show, it's mainly from my imagination and will probably be canon divergent from the jump._
> 
> _Also, once the show actually airs, lco123 and I are going to do a bonus episode of ourEverybody A, Everybody Gay podcast to discuss, so keep an ear out for that, as I'm sure we will have some thoughts!_
> 
> -

Alison wedges the phone against her shoulder as she makes a grab for Lily, who is running through the living room shrieking and sticky with peanut butter. She’s overdue for her nap, but Hanna’s not in any shape for a call back once the kids are down. Her sorrow is immediate, overwhelming.

“It’s exactly the same,” Hanna says, sniffling. “We’re finally back in New York and all our old problems are right where we left them. Like they’ve been waiting in some crappy storage locker with a smelly old couch.”

“I’m sorry,” Alison offers, as she wipes at her daughter’s hands. “But you and Caleb have been through a lot together. I’m sure this is just a rough patch.” 

“I’m not,” Hanna says, flatly. She sighs. “Maybe it’s this place. Too much history. We should do what you did and haul ass to the West Coast. Find somewhere totally new. It’s no good here. We’re no good here. We sit across the table at dinner and eat and stare are our phones.”

“You don’t talk at all?”

“There’s nothing to say! It’s like, if we’re not almost dying or being blackmailed or covering up a crime - we don’t have anything in common.”

Alison’s stomach twists a little. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Hanna sighs. “I love him, but we’re not like you and Em. We didn’t get the fairy tale ending.”

“I have to go,” Alison says, abruptly. “Lily is licking peanut butter out of Grace’s hair. But text me later, okay?”

She hangs up and turns to the girls. “Alright, bath time for the stickiest sisters.” She carries them both upstairs, catching sight of her wedding pictures framed and prominently displayed on the mantel. 

The white dresses. The posed smiles. Her wife’s arms wrapped around her waist.

It’s the most she’s seen of Emily for the past five months.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Some days, Alison feels like her life is a giant to do list. 

Throw the towels in the washer.  
Get the girls dressed.  
Frost cookies for the bake sale.  
Drop the girls at playgroup.  
Grade Of Mice and Men essays.  
Gas up the car.  
Don’t think about Emily.  
Run the girls to pre-school.  
Register them for pee-wee soccer.  
Teach class.  
Assign homework.  
Don’t cry in front of coworkers.  
Buy orange juice.  
Return library books.  
Start dinner.  
Take the girls to the playground.  
Prepare questions for tomorrow’s pop quiz.  
Read bedtime story.  
Don’t let anyone know she’s doing it all alone.

She’s smack in the middle of the routine, eating leftover mac and cheese off Grace’s plate when the doorbell rings. 

A package, she tells herself. Maybe she ordered something on Amazon last week.

“Surprise!” Hanna says, throwing out her arms and grinning. 

\-------------------------------------------

Grace and Lily adore Hanna. They make her read three stories and tuck them in.

“I can’t believe I picked the one week that Emily’s out scouting swimmers in Missouri,” she laments, sipping white wine on the porch after they’re asleep.

“She’ll be sorry she missed you,” Alison says. It’s probably true. 

“It’s over,” Hanna declares, her eyes fixed on her glass. “He’s moving out.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Hanna doesn’t answer. She frowns at her empty glass, then discards it to take a swig directly from the bottle.

Alison feels a tightness in her chest. Toby and Spencer were a were a literal wreck. Aria and Ezra imploded spectacularly before the end of the book tour. And now Hanna and Caleb are calling it quits. 

“You guys have it all,” Hanna says. “Marriage. A house. Two kids. I was hoping to come here and have it be a spa treatment for heartbreak. Like seeing you two would steam all the drama out of my pores.”

Alison snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you. And your pores. But this isn’t -”

“I know, I know,” Hanna interrupts. “It’s not perfect. It’s hard work, but it’s worth it. When you love each other, everything else will fall into place. Teamwork makes the dream work. Emily’s been giving me the same relationship advice since sophomore year.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Alison replies. “Relationships are more complicated than platitudes.”

Hanna blinks. “You’re right. They are.” She sighs, deeply. “We used to get in so many awful fights about my job. He hated my boss, he hated everyone I worked with. He hated the parties and the runway shows. I thought he just didn’t understand the life I wanted. So we broke up! Then we went back to Rosewood, and soon enough we were keeping huge secrets and lying to the police and it’s like - he understood that better than anyone could.”

Alison takes the bottle and swigs a long cold draught herself. Hanna’s words are like prickles of ice down her spine. 

“But we were never thinking about the future. We weren’t sure we were going to make it to the end of the week without getting attacked or thrown in jail or waking up dead.”

“Waking up dead?”

“You know what I mean,” Hanna says, waving her hand. “Sure, we had problems, but I blamed them all on ‘A’. Except it turns out that without a stupid stalker disrupting my life every five minutes, my life was basically us having the same fight a hundred different ways. He’d make surprise dinner reservations and then be furious if I couldn’t get away. Or I’d tell him I was going to be working late and he’d wait up until 3AM, pretending to read a book, and then act pissy when he was exhausted the next day. And then all of a sudden it hit me. It’s not that he doesn’t understand what I want. He does. He just thinks it’s stupid. That’s who he is. But I need more than that. I want to build something. And I want a partner who wants to build it with me. Not someone who tolerates it when he isn’t trying to tear it down.”

It’s quiet on the porch when Hanna’s done speaking. A soft rain is tapping against the roof.

When Alison speaks, her voice is thick. “You deserve to be happy. We all do.”

Just then, the silence is broken by the low purr of an engine. A bright red Alfa Romeo glides into Alison’s driveway.

“This day is full of surprises,” Alison remarks, as Mona Vanderwaal emerges. She looks perfectly coiffed. She’s wearing less makeup than she used to, the focal point of which is a dark red lip. Which is drawn up and fixed into a smile with the barest hint of frost around the edges. She’s wearing glasses again, but the style makes her look powerful. Her hair is swept into a purposefully messy bun, and the business meeting version of a little black dress that she’s wearing shows off the toned muscles of her legs. 

A shiver runs down Alison’s spine.

Mona’s breezes up the steps, heels clacking confidently despite her complete lack of an invitation.

“Hanna,” she says, her voice a low purr. “I have absolute faith that one day you’ll be such a big celeb you’ll have multiple assistants to respond to your messages. But that day is not today! I’ve been texting you for the past hour!” 

Hanna makes a face. “I turned off my phone. I didn’t want to risk drunk dialing Caleb.”

“Valid,” Mona agrees. “But I just landed you a six page spread in the next issue of Scarlet Magazine. The catch is you only have four days to shoot it.”

“Are you serious?” Hanna asks, sitting up straighter in her chair. “But I have meetings with Nordstroms tomorrow.”

“Reschedule! Or I’ll take the first meeting with them. You can breeze in three weeks from now with a hotter label and a higher profile! It’s a win-win!”

“You’re right,” Hanna declares. “Omigod, I need to get on the phone with the studio.”

“I have you booked on the red eye tonight,” Mona calls after her, as Hanna heads inside.

Alison waits until she’s out of earshot before speaking.

“I thought you were still in Paris.”

“Non,” Mona says, her accent brisk and sarcastic. “I’m back and I’m exploring my options.”

Alison gives her a wary look. “Funny how you’re back just as Hanna and Caleb are splitting up.”

Mona’s smile stretches a little thinner over her teeth, but her voice stays upbeat. “Timing is everything!” 

Alison rolls her eyes.

“But enough about me,” Mona says, deftly. “ _Where_ is your better half?”

“She’s scouting prospective swimmers in Missouri.” She says it smoothly. The lie sounds natural as it falls from her mouth. She’s conjuring a picture in her mind. Emily standing on the edge of a pool with a clipboard and a whistle. Shorts pulled on over her one piece suit. The smell of chlorine and the sound of flip flops slapping against puddles of water on the tiles.

Maybe this is where she goes wrong. Maybe something wistful drifts into her expression as she imagines this version of her wife. An Emily who’s away on a normal business trip, due back in a finite amount of time. Not dressed in desert fatigues. Not driving supply routes in Iraq. Not having joined the actual army to avoid dealing with their problems.

She sees something click in the back of Mona’s eyes. 

_She knows._

Alison has been making up elaborate stories of her happy home life and selling them to everyone who matters for so long that it’s become second nature.

Leave it to Mona Vanderwaal to swoop in and spot the lie in five seconds flat.

Hanna bangs the door open with her giant purse. Her eyes are glued to her cell phone as she texts urgent instructions to her assistant. Alison gives Mona a silent shake of the head, an unspoken request to keep the secret she’s stumbled on to herself. The only sign that Mona understands is the barest flick of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. 

“I’m so sorry,” Hanna says. “I have to run off before I’ve even been here a whole day.”

“This could be your big break,” Alison tells her. “Next time I see you, you’ll be famous.”

She pulls Hanna into a tight hug. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” Hanna replies. “You and Em should come out for fashion week. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

Alison’s eyes meet Mona’s over Hanna’s shoulder. 

She stares at Alison for a long beat, then grabs Hanna’s bag and tosses it into the trunk.

She looks back once as they’re pulling out of the driveway, raises her hand in a little half wave.

She doesn’t say a word.

\----------------------------

Alison isn’t expecting Mona to come back, but she’s not exactly surprised when she reappears on Alison’s doorstep a week later. It’s been gray and drizzly all day, but Mona looks chic and dry. She’s holding a red umbrella, a pop of color that contrasts with her shiny black raincoat, her popped white collar. 

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asks, as Alison is peering warily through the peephole.

Alison opens the door. “It’s not a great time.” It’s late enough that the girls are in bed, but it’s prime time for the eternal game of asking for additional stories or kisses or drinks of water.

Mona breezes into the small foyer and kicks off her shoes. “I don’t mind.”

Grace calls down for another tuck in, complaining that her blankets are too messy for her to sleep.

“Go,” Mona shrugs, folding her legs underneath her as she settles into the couch. “I can wait.”

By the time Alison gets back downstairs, the living room is barely recognizable. The toys that were scattered across the floor are put away, the library books are stacked neatly on the shelf, the popsicle Lily left to melt in her half finished glass of orange juice has been cleared away, and the haphazard pile of clean laundry has been folded, color sorted, and placed neatly into the basket.

“Hyper-adrenalized housekeeping?” Alison snarks.

Mona smooths a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt. “Sorry if I overstepped. It seemed like you could use a second set of hands.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?”

Alison gives her a thoroughly disbelieving look.

“Fine,” Mona says, putting her hands up in a delicate you-got-me gesture. “It felt like I tripped over a secret the other night, and I wanted to apologize.”

Alison feels her entire body tense up.

“I don’t know what the situation is,” Mona continues. “But it’s clear that Emily isn’t here. And I’m betting she’s not in Missouri either. Which means you’re lying to Hanna. Whatever it is, you can’t confide in your best friends.” Her mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “But I’m not your friend. You can tell me.”

Alison sighs and sinks down onto the couch. Mona, she notices, has poured them both a glass of white wine. She sips hers slowly.

“You really don’t know? You’re not using satellites to triangulate her cell signal, or hacking into government databases to find out?”

“No,” Mona responds. “I’m trying to be a better version of myself.”

“How’s that going?”

“I find it limiting. But my therapist insists.”

Alison laughs, a little ruefully. “Mine says I need to work on my trust issues.”

“Don’t we all,” Mona says, her voice softening a bit. “But maybe I can help. Is she in rehab? Or jail? Did she fake her own death?”

“No,” Alison says. It must be the wine making her mouth so dry she can hardly form the words. 

“She left. She ran off and joined the army.”

Mona has a good poker face. She doesn’t react immediately, just sits with the information for a few beats.

“When?”

“Two years ago. Right after we moved here,” Alison says. She feels her voice getting thick, tears building in the back of her throat. 

“She was going to go back to school for kinesiology. But I think - I’m not sure, we were both exhausted all the time and our communication was - there might have been something wrong with her transfer credits from Hollis. Who knows what it was? A paperwork issue. A snafu that would have meant she had to take a few more classes than we planned. But she went into a tailspin over it. I thought she’d been going every morning to work it out with the registrar, but she’d been talking to a recruiter. She came home dressed in her uniform. That was her way of telling me.”

Mona puts a hand on Alison’s shoulder, and Alison takes a deep breath, clamping down on the wave of anger and disappointment that’s threatening to burst out in a violent crying jag. 

“She came home for a week. Five months ago. But what could I do? She was home on leave and she expected to slide right back into a happily ever after that never actually existed in the first place.”

“And no one knows about this? She’s on the other side of the world and you’re pretending she’s still here and everything is sunshine and rainbows?”

“She doesn’t want anyone else to worry,” Alison says. Her chest feels different, like her breath is expanding for the first time in ages. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem. It’s mine. Ours. There are no happy families.”

“You’re upset,” Mona observes. “You’re misquoting Tolstoy.”

A strangled laugh cuts through the tears that Alison is valiantly trying to swallow. 

Her heart is pounding. She’s almost light headed with relief. 

The adrenaline rush of the truth.


	2. That Old Catastrophe

Beacon Heights Academy is a prestigious school, but the students still stream out the doors before the last bell is done ringing on Friday afternoon.

Alison sits at her desk with her head in her hands.

It’s been a long day. 

Week. 

Month. 

Year.

She had to confiscate six cell phones and send two slack jawed lacrosse jocks to the Vice Principal for harassing Dylan Walker. And that was only fourth period. 

Her cell rings as she’s gathering up a stack of papers to grade. 

“Meet me for dinner,” Mona says, the moment Alison has the phone to her ear.

“Tonight?” Alison says in disbelief. “I have two toddlers. Are you planning to treat us all to chicken fingers at the McDonalds Playland? Because otherwise I’ll have to take a rain check.”

There’s a knock on the door so soft that Alison has to look over to see if anyone’s actually there. 

Julia Redding is shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She always seems a little twitchy, her hands in the pockets of her shapeless gray sweatshirts, her clear green eyes staring out from underneath a severe set of asymmetrical bangs that obscure most of her face.

Alison motions for her to come in.

“Get a sitter,” Mona suggests, as Julia sidles towards Alison’s desk.

“I don’t have a sitter. Unless you’re offering to fly Pam in from Rosewood,” Alison reminds her. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m with a student right now. I have to go.”

Julia gestures towards Alison’s top desk drawer. Of course. Her phone was one of the confiscated ones. Too much texting, not enough discussion of women’s agency in Fitzgerald.

Alison opens the drawer as Mona continues undeterred. “Canlis, 8pm. I need to speak with you.”

“So speak,” Alison says, starting to get exasperated. “As much as I appreciate your understanding the other night, and your continued discretion,” her voice starts to break a little bit, and she turns away as Julie rummages through the drawer to retrieve her phone. “You know my situation. I’m basically a single parent. I can’t drop everything and slip away to Canlis in a little black dress.”

Julia lets out a low whistle, drawing Alison’s attention back over to her. FANCY, she mouths, her whole demeanor changing.

“I’ll see you and your little black dress there,” Mona tells her, ending the call. She’s never been one to give up easily. 

Alison sighs as she puts the phone down.

Julia is still standing there, but now she’s looking pensive, less like a cat about to bolt.

“Do you need a babysitter?” she asks. “Because I could do it. I’m great with kids.”

Alison frowns. “I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.”

“Are you sure? Canlis is nice. Really nice. My dad took my mom there to apologize for -” she trails off. “Staying late at work all the time.” 

Alison raises her eyebrows. The girl is a bad liar. May she never need to become a better one.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” she says, gently. “But I have twin girls who are three and a half. I couldn’t ask you to -”

“You didn’t ask! I offered! It’s perfect. You get to go on your date, I get to earn extra cash, and I won’t have to go - I mean, I don’t have anything else going on tonight, so it’s no big deal.”

Alison looks at her, appraisingly. She’s a junior, involved with student council or Model UN as her extracurricular. She writes good essays but occasionally seems to be bluffing through answers about the readings, as if she doesn’t always get them done on time. She always wears sweatshirts over her clothes, as if she’s cold, or trying to burrow inside like a turtle in its shell.

“I’m not sure it would be appropriate,” Alison tells her, which is really the crux of the matter. She thinks of the wedding pictures on the wall. She’s not in the closet at school, but she prefers to keep her private life as private as possible. She even changed her name before they moved, she goes by Alison Laurens these days. She’s tried to google-proof her life, to make a new start that doesn’t involve old stories about kidnappings and stalkers and dead bodies in the yard. Inviting this girl into her home would be an unnecessary complication.

“Please, you can trust me,” Julia insists, as if she can sense Alison’s hesitation. “I can give you references if you need them. And I know CPR and stuff. I was a lifeguard last summer.” 

“Okay,” Alison says, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve convinced me.”

Alison isn’t sure what makes her relent. Maybe it’s the way Julia’s desperation to avoid going home feels so familiar. Or maybe it’s that her being a lifeguard would make Emily want to give her a chance.

Emily, who might approve of this particular babysitter, but would definitely not be thrilled about Alison having dinner with Mona. Alone. On a Friday night. At the fanciest restaurant in town.

She feels her mouth go hard. Emily is six thousand miles away. She doesn’t get a veto.

\-------------------

Alison walks into the restaurant dressed to kill. She can still turn heads, and she senses quite a few eyes watching her stride towards Mona’s table by the window. She’s surprised by how good it feels to be out of the house after dark. To be wearing her strappy heels and a dress that’s been languishing in a dry cleaning bag in the back of the closet ever since they unpacked. She’s wearing a black choker with her mother’s favorite diamond broach. 

“You look amazing,” Mona tells her, as she sits down. There doesn’t seem to be any spin on the words. No backhanded compliment. No hidden agenda. Alison feels slightly unsettled by the lack of subtext.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t return the compliment. Mona is still Mona. She knows exactly how good she looks in her red dress, and she certainly caught Alison’s gaze drifting up the slit that goes almost all the way up her thigh. 

“I’ve gotten an offer,” Mona announces, as the waiter pours their wine. “I took a few meetings, since I was in town. It’s quite tempting. Exciting work and a salary in the high six figures.”

“I didn’t realize you were looking.”

“I’m always looking for the right opportunity.”

Alison smiles. “I suppose that’s true.”

“But I wanted to run it by you. I know that part of the reason you came out here was to have a clean slate, and I don’t want to mar that for you.”

Alison doesn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to swirl the wine in her glass. She takes a sip and looks out the window to avoid meeting Mona’s eyes.

“What about New York?”

“Hanna will be fine,” Mona replies, although her fingers grip the stem of her wine glass a little tighter. “She needs space to figure things out.”

“Have you told her how you feel?”

Mona gives her a look that makes Alison brace for a sharp retort that never comes. 

Instead Mona sighs softly. “If she doesn’t know, it’s because she doesn’t want to know.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Does it matter?” Mona asks. “I can’t spend my whole life waiting for her.”

Alison smirks. It’s as if they’re falling into a familiar rhythm, one that still makes her blood quicken a little. “Is that lie for me? Or is that really what you’re telling yourself?”

Mona purses her lips, displeased.

“Fine,” she says, brusquely. “You caught me. The situation with Hanna is complicated. It always has been. If she knew all the things I’ve done, she’d never trust me again.”

Alison shakes her head. “I still don’t believe you. You came all the way back from Paris to see if you had a chance with her.” 

Mona’s smile falters and for the briefest of seconds a look of genuine pain flashes across her face.

“I found out that I didn’t,” she admits, quietly. “She’s in love with someone else. I don’t think she even realizes it yet, but I could tell.”

Alison nods. “It’s hard. Knowing someone better than they know themselves.”

“It has its limitations.” Mona agrees. “As I’m sure you’re aware.”

It’s an extremely polite allusion to how well they both know Emily. A light graze of the fingertips over the scenarios Alison actively chooses not to think about. The prospect of Emily with a girl in every port. Or, more accurately, a woman at every military base. Constantly being drawn into short term affairs as a way of distracting herself from everyday danger.

Alison swallows hard. “I like to think people can change.”

Mona nods, graciously declining to press the issue. “It’s a nice thought.”

Alison studies the menu, which seems to promise a meal full of gastronomic delight. 

“I’ve spent a lot of energy building a life that I hoped could be free from the past,” she says. “And I can’t pretend that you being here won’t alter whatever semblance of balance I’ve managed to find.”

Mona calmly sips her wine. “Does that mean my continued presence would be - unwelcome?”

Alison knows herself well enough to be wary of the small flutter of nerves in her stomach before she answers.

“Not at all.” She leans forward. “You surprise me.”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “I do?”

“We’ve never exactly been friends. But even so - you were very kind to me the other night. My situation with Emily - it isn’t something I talk about.”

Mona looks at her intently. “Never underestimate the bond between adversaries.”

Alison smiles and raises her glass. “To old enemies and new friends.”

Mona clinks her glass against Alison’s.

“May our secrets keep us close.”

\-------------------------------------

Alison agrees to drive Julia home. 

Julia is quiet, her hands in her pockets, probably running a thumb across the wad of cash that Mona handed her when she insisted on paying for the sitter. 

Not that she doesn’t deserve it. The twins were sound asleep when they got back. The dishes were done and Julia was on the couch reading a back issue of Scarlet. No one required CPR. All in all, a complete success.

“You can let me out here,” Julia says, as they come to an intersection with a narrow, unlit road that seems to wind up a steep hill. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Alison looks at her in disbelief as she makes the turn. “At this hour? Are you kidding?”

“No,” Jula insists, actually reaching for the door handle, “It’s fine, it’s not that far.”

Just then, Alison’s headlights catch a small stone wall bearing the words, “Hotchkiss Lodge,” and the road reveals itself to actually be a long driveway approach to a giant McMansion perched at the top of the incline.

She stops the car and stares at the scene in front of them. Cars are parked haphazardly across the lawn. Clusters of teenagers are outside laughing and drinking out of red plastic cups. There’s a small fountain out front where a sophomore soccer player is shirtless and appears to be humping a statue of Apollo.

“So,” Alison deadpans. “This would be why you wanted to walk.”

Julia squirms a little, embarrassed. “I’m just here to meet a friend. We’re crashing at her place tonight, we’ll leave as soon as I find her. I’m not here to get trashed or anything, I swear.”

“Parties like this can get unpredictable,” Alison warns. “I’d really prefer to drop you at your house. Or at a friend’s, if that would be better for you.”

“My friend is here,” Julia assures her. “I just have to go in and get her.”

Alison resists the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel. “Give me your phone,” she says.

“No,” Julia says, suddenly panicky. “You can’t call my mom. Please!”

Alison takes the phone out of her hand and types in her own phone number. “I want you to call me. If you can’t find her, or if it turns out your ride has been drinking, and I’ll come back and get you. No questions asked.”

“Okay,” Julia mumbles as she opens the car door. “I’m good, though.”

Alison reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Be careful.”

Julia turns and meets her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Thanks, Mom.”

\-------------------------------------

Alison is driving away slowly, her eyes on Julia heading into the party in the rearview mirror.

She thinks of the Kahn cabin, the smell of stale beer, the guys old enough to buy the beer using it to lower the inhibitions of freshman girls. 

She takes a deep breath. 

The past is not the present.

She’s distracted. She doesn’t see the blonde girl sprinting across the darkened driveway until she’s right in front of her. 

Alison slams on her brakes. She’s gone in a flash, clutching a torn athletic jersey to her chest. 

A guy stumbles after her, weaving a little on his feet. Alison honks the horn at him, loudly, and he reels a little trying to shield his eyes from the light. 

Nolan Hotchkiss. Ne’er do well son of one of the richest tech moguls in the country. He’s basically Noel with ten times the money and none of the roguish charm.

He lurches forward and loses his balance, catching himself at the last second by bracing a hand against the hood of her car. He pushes himself upright and staggers back towards the house.

Alison already has her phone out, but she doesn’t get a signal until she’s back at the main road.

There’s no way to be sure the police in Beacon Heights are any better than the cops in Rosewood. Then again, they could hardly be worse. 

She calls 9-1-1.

_“I need to report a disturbance at Hotchkiss Lodge.”_

\---------------------------------------------- 

She’s still asleep when the newspaper hits her doorstep the next morning.

A picture of Nolan Hotchkiss in his lacrosse uniform grins cockily on the front page.

Right underneath the bold block letters of the headline: 

**Hotchkiss Heir Found Dead.**


	3. Stages of Grief

Emily’s face keeps freezing. 

“It’s starting to remind me of Rosewood,” Alison tells her. “Too much.”

The image of Emily is pixelated, blurring and blending into the stripes of the enormous American flag tacked up on the wall behind her.

“There are all kinds of rumors. An overdose. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Drowning. It feels _ghoulish_. He was just a kid.” Alison runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know why this keeps happening. Rationally, I know it’s not me. But sometimes it feels like everywhere I go, crime scene tape and body bags follow.” 

Emily doesn’t respond. She might not want Alison talking about body bags.

“I’m sorry,” Alison says. “It’s just bringing up a lot of things I didn’t realize were buried.” She cringes at her choice of words. “I wish you were here.” 

There’s nothing but silence.

“Hello?” she says, “Hello?”

She wonders when they lost the connection.

\--------------------------------------

School is cancelled through Tuesday, out of respect for the family. 

And so everyone can attend the funeral. 

Alison goes alone.

She pauses in the vestibule, focuses on keeping her breathing steady. 

She can’t think about Charlotte’s funeral right now. 

Elliott and Emily at her side.

She ducks into a dark alcove, leaning against a large potted plant and willing herself to get it together.

This isn’t Rosewood. This isn’t her mother. This isn’t her fault.

“This is all your fault,” a voice hisses nearby. Caitlin Lewis, her voice much quieter than when she’s shouting directions to her teammates on the soccer field, but no less commanding. “You need to ditch it. Throw it off a ferry or something.”

“We might need it,” a male voice protests. Dylan Walker sounds twitchy. Nervous. “There could be proof!”

“Well I’m not keeping it!” 

Alison feels the back of her neck go cold. The last voice belongs to Julia Redding.

“Girls?” Diana Park-Lewis calls over. She must be taking time off the campaign trail to be here. She’s a political celebrity in these parts. She’d been married to Senator Lewis for twenty years when news of his affair broke. She divorced him, seduced and then married his much younger mistress, then ran against him in the next primary. She won handily, after doing a series of ads that asked voters, ‘If I couldn’t trust my husband, why should you?’ Ava, still glamorous even as she nears thirty, comes over to usher Caitlin and the others into the church.

Alison counts to ten, then follows them at a discreet distance.

\-----------------------------------

The church is crowded and she has to settle for a half full pew near the organ.

She tries to watch the three students from a distance. Julia is hard to miss, she’s wearing a hot pink dress that stands out in a sea of black. She and Dylan are both sitting on either side of Caitlin, her moms flanking them in the row behind. It must be hard for the two of them to be here, Alison realizes. Caitlin’s brother Taylor died in a car wreck last May, a few weeks before graduation.

Diana rests a hand on the small of Ava’s back, and Ava rests her head gently against her partner’s shoulder. 

Alison averts her eyes and turns away.

That’s when she spots Mona Vanderwaal, dressed for the occasion in a sleeveless black dress with a white collar, elbow length black gloves and a stylish hat with a netted veil partially covering her face. She’s walking in on the arm of a tall woman with spiky white blonde hair. Her escort is wearing a black pantsuit with a neckline that plunges almost to her waist. She looks like she just stepped off the cover of last month’s Fortune Magazine. Claire Hotchkiss, billionaire founder and CEO of Hotchkiss Industries.

Mona catches sight of Alison and steers them towards her. People seem to be holding them up with condolences. Claire waves most of them off and strides brusquely over, stopping only as Mona makes a move to enter Alison’s pew.

“Well,” Mona says, sounding a little breathless. “This is my stop.”

“Until next time, Ms. Vanderwaal,” Claire intones, her voice throaty and low. She leans in, so close that the cloth of her blazer brushes Mona’s clavicle. “I’ll admit, from the time of our first meeting, I’ve been eager to see _more of you_ outside the office.” 

“I look forward to it,” Mona purrs. “Under happier circumstances, I hope.”

Claire responds with a gaze so sultry, it actually makes Mona blush. The naked hunger of it makes Alison’s neck flush a little as well, as Claire’s eyes sweep over every inch of Mona’s body. She’s startled by a small flash of desire coursing through her own body. 

It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself firmly. It’s environmental exposure. Like second hand smoke. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Alison interjects, clearing her throat and offering her hand for Claire to shake. “I was Nolan’s English teacher. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, Ms. Laurens,” Claire responds, barely taking her eyes off Mona. “Charmed, I’m sure.” 

She bites her bottom lip and runs her fingers delicately up the length of Mona’s arm, from the tips of her gloved fingers to the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Soon,” she promises.

Her heels clack as she struts away from them, to sit alone in the pew directly in front of the altar.

Alison raises her eyebrows as she gives Mona a deadpan stare.

“What?” Mona says, casually. She pulls out a compact and pats the messy bun that seems to be slipping out at the back of her hat. “People grieve in different ways.”

“And her way involves, what exactly?”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Maybe not,” Alison snarks. “But her lipstick on your collar has plenty to say.”

Mona’s eyes widen as she puts a hand to her neck. 

Alison watches the realization dawn, Mona’s eyes narrowing and her lips pursing ever so slightly.

“I don’t have lipstick on my collar.”

“But you thought you might. Which is just as interesting, really.”

Mona’s bristles. “I was concerned for my couture.”

“Did you see the news clip where the reporter tried to ask her about losing her son, and she turned it into a discussion about her company and the value of predictive health care?”

“She has a very intense focus.”

“Her son just died, and she’s at the funeral looking at you like a snack. That doesn’t seem off to you?”

“If the strength of my personal magnetism can offer comfort a bereaved billionaire, I’m more than willing to use my gifts for the greater good.”

She brushes off the side eye that Alison is giving her. 

“Don’t let the wifey being away turn you into a prudish school marm! Death makes people eager to feel alive. I’m sure the same thing happened at my funeral. And yours.”

She smiles brightly, with a dangerous flash of teeth, and indication that the subject is closed..

“Let’s talk about you,” she says. “Nolan was one of your students?”

Alison nods. “Fourth period American Literature.”

“I’m sorry. Did you know him well?”

_Alison is writing notes for The Crucible on the board._

_“What does the author make of Abigail? What are we supposed to think of her?”_

_Her eyes turn to Nolan, who seems to be texting furiously. He’s constantly on his phone, as if he’s daring the faculty to take it away from him._

_“She’s the villain,” Caitlin Lewis answers, before she can call on anyone. “She starts accusing other people of witchcraft in order to get herself out of trouble.”_

_“Is she selfish? Or vindictive?” Alison asks._

_“Does it matter?” Dylan Walker responds. “Maybe she was just a girl who told a lie, and it got out of control.”_

_“But she relishes the power,” Julie points out as she slouches in her seat. “She like, gets off on it. On falsely accusing people.”_

_Nolan smirks lazily from the back row. He hasn’t turned in his homework for the first three acts, and faked laryngitis to avoid reading Proctor’s soliloquy in class._

_“Of course she does,” he offers. “She’s drunk on it. It’s the only power she’s ever had.”_

Alison shakes her head, trying to break out of her reverie. Trying not to think about Nolan bleary eyed in front of her car on Friday night, not to wonder how much time he had left in that moment. If she could have done anything that might have changed things.

“I don’t think he was an easy person to know.”

\------------------------------

The whole service itself feels stilted. 

The lacrosse coach gives a brief eulogy about Nolan being a promising young man, cut down in his prime. 

The pastor drones through the usual readings. 

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_

It’s standard. Boilerplate. The congregation bows their heads.

_I will fear no evil, for thou art with me._

Claire chortles audibly, leading the a general exchange of scandalized looks.

_Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me._

A few girls in the front row dab at their eyes, as if they expect to be crying, but no tears seem to come.

There are detectives in the back, two guys dark suits and worn out shoes, watching the mourners.

_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life._

Dylan lets out a barking cough. Alison turns to see Caitlin running a hand over his back.

Nolan’s teammates are the pallbearers, all wiry muscles and grim expressions. 

The goalie trips over an enormous wreath of white roses.

It’s one of at least two dozen ostentatious floral displays.

The air in the church is stuffy with lilies and jasmine and gardenias all vying for dominance.

The flowers are trying hard to put a pretty face on it. 

No one at his funeral seems especially sad Nolan Hotchkiss is dead.


End file.
